her rough jibes and scoffs for her charity, she prayed none the less for his salvation; and now she sought Heaven to strengthen and console the wounded and bereaved stranger who had come amongst them.  By the time she left her oratory, she had laid by a store of strength and happiness, more than sufficient for the trials of the day.  Yet May was not faultless.  She had a quickness and sharpness of temper, which very often tempted her to the indulgence of malice and uncharitableness; and a proud spirit, which could scarcely brook injustice.  But these natural defects were in a measure counterbalanced by a high and lofty sense of responsibility to Almighty God—­a feeling of compassion and forgiveness for the frailties and infirmities of others, and a generous and discriminating consideration for the errors of all.

When Mr. Stillinghast came down that morning, everything was bright and comfortable in the sitting-room.  A clear fire burned in the grate; the toast and coffee sent up an inviting odor; and the table was spread with the whitest of linen, on which the cups and saucers were neatly arranged.  The morning paper was drying on a chair by the fire, and over all, flickered the glorious sunshine, as it gushed like a golden flood through the clustering geraniums in the window.

“Good morning, sir!” said May, blithely, as she came in from the kitchen with a covered plate in her hand.

“Good morning,” he growled; “give me my breakfast.”

“I thought you’d like a relish for your breakfast, sir, and I broiled a few slices of beef; see how very nice it is,” said May, uncovering the plate, and placing it before him.

“Humph! well, don’t do it again.  I cannot afford such extravagance; I must curtail my expenses.  ’Gad! if I should have another beggar thrown on my hands, we must starve,” he said, bitterly.

May did not relish this speech at all; up rose the demon, pride, in her soul, instigating her to a sharp retort, and vindictive anger; but she thought of Bethlehem, and grew calm.

“I hope not, sir,” she said, gently.  “You have cast bread on the waters; after many days it will return unto you—­perhaps in an hour, and at a time, dear uncle, when it will be much needed.”

“Fudge, fudge!” he said, testily; “I—­I cast bread on the waters, do I?  Well, I am doing what is equally as foolish—­it is truly like throwing bread into a fish-pond; but where’s what’s her name?”

“She slept poorly last night, and I would not awaken her this morning,” said May, diverted in spite of herself.

“How do you know she didn’t sleep, pray? did she tell you so?”

“No, sir; I heard her weeping all night, and, indeed, sir, I hope you’ll speak kindly to Helen when you come in this evening, because she feels so very sorrowful on account of her recent losses, and—­and—­”

“And what, Miss Pert?”

“Her dependence, sir!” said May, bravely.